The Firebird
by crystalblood
Summary: The closer it seems that he gets to freedom, Galahad remembers more and more of what is buried in his past, and what each knight means to him in turn.
1. Prologue: Rus

**Disclaimer:** After seeing the wonderful movie King Arthur (director's cut, of course, the theatrical version is terrible in comparison), I grew very interested in Lucius Artorius Castus, and the Sarmatian knights, both of which I'd never before heard. Upon some preliminary research, I found out that Castus actually lived in the late 2nd century AD, not the late 5th century. Consequently, his circumstances for being in Britain were much different, and he may have been the commander that (rather ingeniously) defeated the Sarmatians in the battle spoken of in the first part of the movie (though the movie claims this was in the 3rd century). Regardless, however, I love the movie and the knights and the story, no matter how historically inaccurate, and therefore have endeavored to write this fic. Also, because the movie itself, though it may be accurate as far as military dress, etc go, is not truly accurate, I'm not going to worry about that very much in my story, though I shall try to make it as realistic as possible under the circumstances. Another note is the question of the relationship between Galahad and Gawain, and their ages. The line, "It's different for Galahad; I've been in this life longer than the other" suggests that Gawain is younger, but it could also mean that since Galahad is younger, he is closer to home. I don't know. There are other things in the movie that suggest they are related, such as when Gawain answers for Galahad to Arthur (something that makes me think that he is older), so that's the road I'm going to take. Lastly, I've read some of the book 'based on the screenplay,' and let me tell all of you, that it is _much _different than the movie, and…let's say…that I like what Antoine and the actors did with the script much better than this…Frank. I absolutely will not take anything from that book as fact, such as Vanora being into Lancelot and Dagonet being fat and stupid and all the blatant 'Christianity is better' phrases he likes to put in there…-breathes deeply- -attempts calming down rising ire- So enjoy! Oh yes, and I don't own anything having to do with the movie…unfortunately…and I'm not profiting from this, except perhaps indulging myself in exploring the knights' pasts, and their psyches.

**Prologue:**

_Rus_

The wind flew through the warm, open air, causing the long grass to wave back and forth in a frenzied dance. It was subservient to the wind, so the air paid it no more attention. Nothing was there to stop it, naught could cause it to stray from its current, violent path…it whipped along the open plain, pushing in front of it dark clouds, boiling with energy and rain. The clouds, herded by this determined shepherd, clustered together and rolled over one another, increasing the energy, yet decreasing space, so that with one large groan, they opened themselves up to let out the rain. The wind cared less for the rain than it did for the grass, and simply pushed the water before it as well. Miles with nothing, nothing to stop the wind from doing what it wished…except, what is this? Earth, above the grass? A village, huddling together with its small sod houses bravely withstood the wind's onslaught, yet it would not have that. The clouds rumbled and heaved together, catching on to their shepherd's anger, and the rain poured down hard on the houses. The wind whistled through the makeshift paths in the village, and sneaked through every crevice or hole it could find in the earthy walls of the houses. Finally, the clouds had had enough, their energy could not be contained, and lightening flashed across the sky and to the ground, momentarily illuminating the dark scenery. Almost as an afterthought, the sky wrenched itself apart and gave forth a primal scream, causing the ground and all connected to it to shake.

Galahad's eyes snapped open and he clutched his chest. The light from the storm came through the window, showing the little boy to be sitting up in bed, breathing hard. Again it thundered, and Galahad cursed himself for getting startled by it a moment before. _Well, there's no going back to bed now._ "Gawain!" he whispered, to see if his brother was also awake. "Gawain! Is the baby up?" When Galahad said baby, he didn't really mean a baby at all, but was referring to their cousin, Maaret, who at five years was only three years behind Galahad himself. "Gawain!" he whispered again, and this time turned to shove his brother in order to wake him, for he didn't want to be up alone.

But Gawain wasn't there.

Galahad looked then for Maaret and found her sleeping peacefully despite the storm, her long blonde hair half-covering her face, forming a contrast to the single grey blanket that rose up and down with her breathing. _But where is Gawain? _He threw aside his own meager blanket and tiptoed up to the long drape that separated his room from the main room of the house. About to step through, he suddenly paused, for he noticed light coming from behind it that, though it flickered, had nothing to do with lightening.

"Is your brother asleep, Gawain?" came a female's voice. It was their mother.

"Yes," answered his brother softly. "And Maaret as well."

"Good." This was their uncle's voice.

Galahad moved the curtain as slowly as possible and peeked into the next room. The main piece of furniture was a wooden table, around which were situated six chairs. Four of them were occupied; along with Gawain, his mother, and his uncle, his Aunt Trella sat there as well. The two candles in the middle cast a dancing light that made their shadows grow bigger and smaller against the wall with each second.

"Now what is it, then, Uncle Kalman?" asked Gawain. The young man, or boy, really, as he was only fourteen, was sitting the closest to Galahad's hiding place. His shoulder-length blonde hair was still pulled back in its leather thong, and Galahad wondered if he had gone to bed at all, and how late (or early) it was.

"Would you like to begin, Busana?" Kalman addressed their mother.

She nodded, though she did not say anything, but simply gazed at her clasped hands. She, too, had long blonde hair, though it wasn't as coarse as Gawain's (in fact, Galahad and his uncle were the only two members of the house who had dark hair). Finally, however, her lips relaxed and she found the strength to look at her son, who was sitting across from her. "Your father, as you know, once fought for the Romans in their army." She paused, and waited for Gawain's acknowledgement. He nodded, and she continued. "He and your Uncle Kalman were stationed in Britain for fifteen years, where they fought the uprisings of the natives, and other invaders, to keep peace under Roman rule. This was before you were born, of course, for I married him upon his return. It must have been about seventeen years after he first left. It's a long way to Britain- and back."

Here she stopped, and there was a long pause which Gawain felt needed to be filled. "Yes, mother. And I know he died from a long-lasting injury he sustained there."

Busana nodded once and gave her son a wan smile, grateful she did not have to reiterate that. "Not only did Rome take away the prime years of his life, but they shortened it as well. Gawain…" Closing her eyes, she sought to find some lasting strength within herself. "Gawain, you were but seven when he died. I don't suppose you remember him too well, at least, not well enough to guess his age accurately. From that you might have been able to discern…but no matter. Do you know how old he was when the Romans came for him?"

"No, mother."

"He was seventeen, Gawain."

No one spoke, and all that could be heard was the wind, still howling in rage and oppression as it rushed past the sod houses.

At length, her meaning came to Gawain. "That would mean…that Uncle Kalman was my age when he left with father and the Romans."

"That is so," responded his uncle. "Your age, Gawain. Do you remember last week when one of the nomadic tribes went by? They were trying to escape, to run ahead. The Romans are coming, Gawain. You will have to serve them, just as Damek and I did, and several of the other men here. But this time, they will take you. They are coming for you."

"For me," Gawain repeated softly. The gravity of the situation slowly sunk into him, and even though in fact he understood, in reality he did not truly know what it would mean for him. But what little he did know caused him to fear- for his brother. "Galahad! But what of Galahad?"

Busana hung her head, so Trella answered for her. "We all fear for him as well," she told Gawain, "but I would not worry too much. We believe that eight is too young for them, but we aren't sure."

"But if there's even a chance-" began his brother.

"There won't be," said their mother firmly. "We will make sure of it."

"Now, Gawain," Kalman interjected. "There are some things you should know about the Romans…"

But Galahad was no longer listening to the conversation. He let the drape drop back down and stumbled backward, feeling winded as if he had just galloped a horse for miles. _Gawain is getting taken by the Romans! Gawain, leaving! _Galahad simply could not fathom it. His older brother was everything, his role model, his idol, his friend. Fifteen to seventeen years without his brother…if he even survived the journey, the tour, and then the journey back. He knew it would have to happen sometime, but…_I won't let them! I won't let them take my brother from me!_

Suddenly, however, he noticed through his tears (he didn't even know he was crying) that the lights outside the room were moving.

"Goodnight, Gawain," whispered their mother tenderly. Galahad scrambled to get back under his blanket.

"Goodnight, mother," he responded.

The blackness of his closed eyes momentarily turned red as the curtain was drawn back and the candlelight glared into the room. Then it was dark again, and he felt rather than heard Gawain lay down next to him.

When he was sure his mother had truly left, he opened his eyes and stared at the wall. _I will not let them take my brother from me._

---

Galahad awoke with a hard shove from his little cousin. "Get up, Gally! Daddy wants you!" He groaned and swatted at her to go away. Maaret just giggled and nimbly skipped aside. "Gally, come on!"

He rolled over and squinted in the sunlight that streamed in through the window. Her job done, Maaret ran out of the room and began talking with her mother. Sitting up he rubbed his eyes and sighed. He had gone to bed early last night, so why did he feel so sick, as if he had had no rest at all? Again he groaned, and stretched. Finally he got up and went into the main room, where his mother and aunt were together cooking breakfast. Normally his stomach would grumble in anticipation, but today the mere thought of food made his headache worsen.

His mother turned and smiled at him. "Why don't you go to the stream and wash for breakfast?"

Galahad nodded and left without remembering to put on his shoes. The feel of cold, muddy grass between his toes woke him up further and made him feel considerably better. He looked off to his left and found a fair part of the village up and about near the stream, which was swollen with the rain of the previous night's storm. Almost immediately he spotted Gawain and his uncle near the bank. Something about seeing his brother made his intestines twist into a knot, but when the older boy turned and waved, Galahad forgot this and sprinted forward to meet them. "Gawain! Uncle!"

"Late, as usual!" greeted Gawain, catching his brother in a friendly headlock. "You'd best wash quickly, or I'll eat all of your food!"

"Well I can't do it if you're holding me, cheater!"

Gawain laughed and released him. "I'm going back to the house, Uncle."

"You go ahead then, I'll make sure Galahad washes properly," Kalman grinned.

Once Galahad had washed his face and hands with the cool water, he felt much better and forgot all about his brief illness in the morning. He and his uncle walked to their sod hut together, talking and laughing about something Maaret had done.

Galahad did not notice the stares they were getting from the other villagers.

When they reached the house, Maaret and Gawain were already seated and eating. Galahad went to join them, but before he could sit down his mother came and handed him a leather pouch. "There's some food in it for you," she told him.

"Why? Where am I going?" he asked, confused.

"I want you to go down to Chandra's," responded his uncle. "And trade for some eggs."

"Right now?" Galahad whined.

"Yes right now!" said his Aunt Trella. She handed him another pouch, which had a small wood carving in it, of a dragon. "Your uncle made this from some of the wood that we got from one of the peddlers that came through last week. It's very valuable. You should be able to get some goat's milk from it, too."

"But you know if I go to Chandra's, the old woman will keep me at her house all day, doing chores and telling me dumb stories!" complained the boy.

"All the more reason for you to leave now," answered Kalman without skipping a beat. "But to soften the blow, I'll let you ride the couple miles, instead of walk it."

Getting to ride one of their prize horses by himself was indeed a privilege. "Will I get to ride Cyrus?" he asked eagerly. Cyrus was a large, dark stallion descended from their father's own warhorse.

"No," refused his uncle. "But you may ride Danica."

Galahad, though slightly disappointed, had to admit to himself that the mare would provide just as good an adventure. "Can Gawain come with me, at least?" he begged as a last ditch effort.

"Absolutely not!" chuckled his older brother. "I've got man's work to do." However, he got up and hugged his brother. "Have fun, and watch yourself! Don't ride too fast! Danica's a powerful horse."

"And make sure you're polite to Chandra, and do as she asks!" added Busana. "Don't forget, eggs and milk."

Galahad nodded and embraced his mother and, after he remembered to put on his shoes, opened his food bag as he walked out the door. He took out a piece of bread and began to nibble on it. Someone had already let the horses out to pasture, so he scanned the plain for a dappled grey mare. "Danica!" he called, tying his pouches to his belt and picking up her tack. "Danica!" Eventually he spotted her not too far away from the village, so he went up to her, speaking softly. She whinnied when she spotted him and suffered herself to be arrayed with the various pieces of tack. After Galahad had done this (on his tiptoes for the most part) he jumped and heaved himself onto her back. "To Chandra's!" he called, and guided her to trot in that direction.

About twenty minutes later, after he had eaten all his mother had packed for him, Galahad's attention was now able to be given to other things. Unsurprisingly, he became sour when he thought of all the work Chandra would make him do. The ugly old woman lived alone with her chickens and goats, and made the children of the village stay and keep her company every time they came to her house. Galahad didn't feel meanly toward her per se, but he was young and full of energy, and simply felt he had better things to do than be her slave. Gawain didn't stand for it anymore, so why did he-

_Slave? Gawain? The Romans! The Romans are coming for Gawain!_

Instantaneously he felt ill again, and nearly vomited his breakfast. That's why he had felt sick in the morning; he knew that something terrible was about to happen. But when would it happen? How long would it be until there would be no more Gawain, no more older brother to look up to and depend upon? Surely it wouldn't be soon. Surely.

Or would it?

Galahad and Danica had now traveled for about three quarters of an hour, mostly at a walk; he was quite nearly to Chandra's. He looked behind him and could not see the village, for it was hidden at this distance by a slight rise in the land.

_"Galahad! But what of Galahad?"_

_Busana hung her head, so Trella answered for her. "We all fear for him as well," she told Gawain, "but I would not worry too much. We believe that eight is too young for them, but we aren't sure."_

_"But if there's even a chance-" began his brother._

_"There won't be," said their mother firmly. "We will make sure of it."_

Could they have sent him off to Chandra's, knowing that he'd be gone for most of the day? Did Gawain hug him before he left because he was saying a true goodbye? Were the Romans coming _today_?

"Danica, Danica!" cried Galahad. "Back to the village! Back home!" He tugged on the reins to turn her and dug his heels into her flank. Surprised, the horse sprang into a gallop, and Galahad was forced to squeeze his legs together for dear life. Yet still, it wasn't fast enough. "Faster, Danica! We must get back to Gawain!"

He leaned forward, gripping the reins tighter, and Danica tossed her head as they ran, whipping her mane into his face. Soon his legs began to burn with the effort, and the wind whistling past his ears caused them to ache. The mare's hooves dug into the ground, churning the grass and splashing mud high enough even to stain Galahad's clothing. But this didn't matter to him; nothing mattered but getting back to the village.

Finally, finally the village came in sight. Ignoring the pain in his legs, he straightened up in the saddle to get a better look- and found his fear to be realized. Even from this distance he could see the group of horses milling around near the village with riders, a couple of them with long red cloaks and helmets sprouting horse hair. "Gawain!" he cried out in distress, but his voice was lost in the wind. Danica galloped a few paces more and he called again, "Gawain!" This time he got a response. Everyone visible turned to look at him, and some of the mounted men turned their horses in his direction. "Gawain!" He finally spotted his brother astride the great Cyrus.

From his viewpoint he could not see the look of horror upon the older boy's face, but he could hear the voice of one of the Romans as he spoke to his mother. "I thought you said you only had one boy!" He spoke their language, but with a thick accent.

Galahad had almost arrived.

"Only one boy of age, sir!" she responded. "He is much too young to go off and fight!"

"No, Galahad!" shouted Gawain, seeing that his brother was nearly with them.

He ignored him and, reining in Danica, practically fell off the mare as he dismounted. "Don't leave, Gawain!"

Busana quickly knelt and stopped Galahad's progress to Cyrus and his brother. "Galahad! Did we not give you orders this morning?"

"So you did contrive to hide this boy from us?" sneered the Roman officer.

"No, sir!" Gawain came in quickly. "We just knew he'd have trouble parting with me, is all!"

The soldier stared long and hard at Gawain, then at Kalman with his wife and daughter, and finally at Busana and Galahad. At length he said, "He looks old enough to me."

"He's barely eight!" cried his mother.

"And the next time we come around here it will be another ten years, and he will be nearly too old to train in Roman military ways." He turned to another of the officers. "He can start out as a page."

"No!" Busana cried. "He is too young!"

"You already have me, sir!" objected Gawain. "And other boys from the village!"

"Shut your mouth, boy!" said the officer. He dismounted and ripped his mother's arm from around her youngest child. Galahad was incensed at the treatment of his mother and kicked the man on his bare shin.

The officer swung his arm and boxed him in the head.

Galahad crumpled onto the ground and for a terrifying few seconds he thought he'd gone blind. When his vision finally cleared, he blinked and tried to stand again, the pounding ache of his head added to the throb of his tired legs. When he finally got his bearings again, he saw Gawain standing on the ground but being held back by another Roman, and his mother kneeling at the officer's feet, begging. Noise eventually permeated his ears again.

"You plotted against the long-standing pact between the Romans and Sarmatians!" the officer was saying. "Do you want me to send for an army to come raze your village? No, no you wouldn't. So I will take the boy, and the horse he was riding! And I will have no more from you," he addressed Gawain, pointing at him. Then to the rest of the Sarmatian boys already in the entourage he added, "Nor will I stand for any dissidence from you!"

"Galahad, Galahad," wept his mother. "Why didn't you listen to us? Galahad, Galahad!" Trella ran to her and helped her to stand, dragging her away from the Romans.

"Mother!" Galahad yelled as the officer plucked him from the ground and set him back onto Danica. "Mother!"

The Roman remounted and nodded to Gawain. "On your horse, boy."

Gawain's jaw jutted out and set, and Galahad knew he was trying very hard to keep his temper. But he did as he was told, and mounted Cyrus. "Goodbye," he directed at his family.

"Oh Gawain!" sobbed his mother. "Gawain and my Galahad both!"

"Move, boy!" commanded the Roman, and slapped Danica on the rump. "Do you think I like it here?"

Gawain moved his stallion over next to Galahad. "You stay with me, little brother."

"Gawain, I didn't, I just…" He turned in his saddle to look back at the solemn faces of the villagers. His mother, he could see, was still weeping in Trella's arms.

"It is too late now, Galahad," his brother answered. "How is your head?"

But Galahad didn't answer. He slumped in his saddle and sat there, gazing back at his home, his comfort, his family. And he stayed staring, long after his neck grew sore, and long after the little sod houses had faded into the distance.


	2. Chapter One: Scouting for Bishops

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything having to do with the King Arthur movie. Please enjoy chapter one…and for further disclaimage, please see the prologue.

**Chapter One:**

_Scouting for Bishops_

"Galahad! Aren't you up yet? Breakfast is nearly ready!"

Galahad groaned and rubbed his eyes. "I think I had too much wine…" he mumbled.

Another voice chuckled at this. "No one would blame you, as you had to settle on the milk cow for company last night."

Galahad sat up and glared at his fellow knight, though he wasn't truly angry since they both knew it not to be true. "What, Lancelot, did you lose at gambling again?"

"Lose in one arena and win in another, my friend," he answered. "I, at least, spent my time with a real woman." Galahad stood and stretched, regarding the other man in the room. He was holding up a piece of bronze polished so that it would show one's reflection and running his fingers through his short black curly hair. Lancelot then turned and smirked at him, raising one of his very expressive eyebrows. "Come now, like your brother said. Breakfast is nearly ready."

After Galahad quickly went through his morning rituals he walked into the second room in their barracks, and found the large table in it half-filled – which was as full as it ever got these days. Food was already set out on the table, along with plates and cups. He took his customary seat next to his brother Gawain. Across from them were Lancelot and Dagonet, and next to the latter sat Tristan. These five were the only ones who lived in the barracks, now.

"The bacon is good, Tristan," commented Gawain.

Tristan nodded in response and continued eating his food.

Hearing this, Galahad took some onto his place and tasted it. "Mm," he said between munches. "It _is_ good."

Tristan flicked his eyes toward Galahad. "Then eat it." He shook his head a little to get his long dark bangs out of his face, and once again went on with his meal.

Galahad frowned. "Oh, so Gawain can make conversation but-"

Lancelot and Dagonet grinned, but Gawain said warningly, "Galahad."

Suddenly the door banged open, stopping any further conversation. "Morning, boys!" yelled the man who entered. He was broad-shouldered and well-built, with visible scars, even on his shaved skull.

"Bors," greeted Dagonet, raising his cup to him.

"Ah," said Bors, sitting next to Galahad across from Tristan. "I had some brekkie with Vanora and the kids, but I wouldn't mind having some more." He picked a piece of fruit from one of the plates in the middle of the table, and talked around it after a bite. "Saw Arthur," he forced out. "He thinks we should go out for another ride today."

At this Galahad brightened up considerably. For the past few days, the six Sarmatians and their Roman commander, Arthur Castus, had been going out on rides south of Hadrian's Wall, or "scouting missions," as Arthur liked to call them. Of course all of the knights knew that if any scouting needed to be done, it would be done along the wall, and Tristan would be sent out to do it with his trusty hawk. These "scouting missions" were actually rides to the top of a large hill a bit south of the wall, overlooking the road that wound up to the fort from the coast. Upon that road an important bishop from Rome was to come, who had recently landed in Britain. This bishop, though Arthur did not say it in so many words, brought with him the key to the Sarmatians' freedom…

Quickly the knights finished their breakfast, grabbed their preferred weapons, and went to the stables. There they found two figures, already busy with the horses. One was Jols, a Briton in the service of Arthur who was particularly good with horses, and now served as the knights' groom. The other, however, was Lucius Artorius Castus, commander of the Sarmatian cavalry at Bremetennacum, an important fort along Hadrian's Wall. He was tall, like his knights, and had a proud bearing honed by years of Roman academic and martial study. In contrast to his remaining men, his hair was cut short and he was clean-shaven, as was the accepted Roman fashion. His green eyes, usually stern, now sparkled with a hint of mischief as he turned to the Sarmatians, and he partially allowed his mouth to curve into a smile. "Good morning. I trust you all slept well."

"On the contrary," responded Lancelot, feigning injury. "Galahad and his cow kept me up all night with their racket."

Other men, maybe, may have been confused by the statement if they had not heard the conversation in the barracks, but Arthur knew his men well and Lancelot was no exception- if there was teasing to be done by this knight, then it would most certainly be about what the other men supposedly lacked in regards to women. So he simply chuckled and shook his head, and continued to prepare for the morning's excursion.

As for Galahad himself, he barely paid attention; far too excited was he to get moving. It could be today, could be tomorrow, could be next week. But the point was that the bishop was coming, and he carried on his person their discharge papers, granting them safe passage through the empire. Yes, fifteen years he had done what he was bid in this cold, wet land, and soon, maybe even as soon as tomorrow, he would be able to shuck his 'duty' and return home.

Home. That was Galahad's main goal since the moment he had first realized what it would truly mean to be a 'servant' to the empire. What he could remember of Sarmatia, or more broadly, Rus, beyond the open plain and endless sky, was a sense of carefree joy and the embracing comfort only a mother could give…It was nothing like this harsh land. All Britain meant to Galahad was obeying orders from people with which he didn't agree, murdering people with whom he had no quarrel, and most importantly, the wrenching wound of maturity. In Rus perhaps, Galahad may have become adult through a season's famine or a bungled love affair, but here, under the Romans' care, his ignorance had been gouged out of his brain by the lash of the whip, his naïveté ground into the earth by the stomp of the boot, and his innocence torn away with the first blood he spilled- all at the tender age of eight.

No, Galahad had no sympathy for the Roman cause. And once he had his paper in his hand, he would barely waste a moment before he left this miserable island behind.

With such thoughts in mind, he sat watching on the hill with the others on his stallion, Elek (borne of Danica). Unlike his region of Sarmatia, their home in Britain was wooded and hilly, so that even though this hill gave them a commanding view of the area, there still wasn't much to be seen as far as movement on the ground went. That, and it was beginning to grow foggy. Restlessly Galahad tapped the butt of his spear into the ground beside him. Even though none of them were heavily armored, as there wasn't much trouble expected below the wall, as a matter of precaution (and habit) they all had their weapons. At length he stopped tapping it and dug the blunt end into the ground to relieve some of his energy. _We've been waiting here for so long… I feel as if I've been on this _hill _for fifteen years alone._

Finally, however, he heard what he'd been waiting so long to hear, in the form of his brother's voice: "Ah, as promised! The bishop's carriage!"

Galahad quickly looked down below him, and saw a caravan of sorts. Indeed it was a carriage, being led and being followed by Roman cavalrymen with their red cloaks and horse hair. He grinned happily and nodded to one of his fellow knights. "Our freedom, Bors."

"Mmm," the knight smirked back. "I can almost taste it."

"And your passage to Rome, Arthur," Gawain added.

The youngest knight gave a mental start at that. He was so wrapped up in the freedom of the knights and himself that sometimes he forgot that Arthur had just as much to gain from their release. Arthur commanded here because that was his duty, not because this is where he wanted to be. Their leader longed to be in Rome, a place he thought to be near to a heaven on earth, full of just people like himself and his old mentor, the monk Pelagius (whom he loved to quote). And since as of yet no more Sarmatian knights had been recruited to this particular post –

The rest of this thought was lost in the gargled cry of a man, followed by the whinny of a horse. One of the leading Roman soldiers in the caravan had been shot in the torso by an arrow that had suddenly come out of the rising mist.

"Woads!" Tristan immediately deduced as the natives of Britain came pouring out the forest to attack the bishop's carriage. They were long-haired and scantily clothed, all of their exposed skin covered in their blue war paint (this came from a certain dye, which was why they called them Woads). The natives bellowed their battle cries and bounded toward the caravan, showering arrows and unsheathing swords.

Arthur urged his horse to gallop down the hill to the caravan's rescue, and before he followed suit, Galahad was left just enough time to allow the Fear to bubble up within him.

The Fear was something that Galahad had known only in connection to conflict. He had been frightened when he was a child and had a nightmare that seemed real, and he had been afraid when he rode off with the Romans and watched his village sink into the distance, but nothing, absolutely _nothing_, was like the Fear. It came to him always on the eve of battle, when he saw a flash of blue body paint or heard a war cry in a strange tongue, when he knew, without doubt, without second thought, that he must kill. The Fear would spark and crackle inside him, pinching his throat, reminding him that in a matter of moments he must look another human in the eyes, and make the glint of life inside them go out. He must take the life away from another, the one possession that was most intimate, most solely someone else's, and slice it out with metal he had polished and sharpened with his own hands. Memories of those he'd murdered before would dance in front of his eyes, blurring together to form one accusation, point one giant finger…

But after the Fear, there always came the Rage. He would suddenly recall why he was fighting – not the cause of Rome or the Pope – but that these native warriors had only one intent, and that was to kill _them._ These people were going to take away the lives and cause pain to his fellow knights, and it was his mission to make sure that didn't happen. The Woads were coming, so what? It was too late now. This was a time for action, a time for metal, a time for blood. And this time, this time it was his freedom at stake. If anything happened to those papers…The Rage would start as a gentle tide in his gut, but then the waves would grow bigger and surge after surge of anger would sweep up and crash against the Fear until it was drowned, swallowed whole in a whirling mass of ire that would abate for no other emotion. Then it would swirl and bubble until it boiled within his chest and within his eyes, an intense fire that added heat and energy to his muscles. As they thundered down the hill, closer and closer to the fray, Galahad gripped his spear grimly just as the Rage was about to explode –

And then came the Calm. The Calm wasn't different from the Rage, but a part of it; it was the peaceful eye of a furious storm. Once in the state of Calm, his senses were heightened – he could see the battlefield with a hawk's vision, could smell the leather and the blood, could hear the splitting of flesh and the twang of a bow, and could feel the tension and excitement of the horse beneath him. Perhaps most importantly, though, as he felt this drain of thought or feeling, as he became this tabula rasa, his action was one with his thinking, and his body wielded itself and his weapons with deadly precision. In the Calm, he was not enacting his training, but simply _was_ his skills, enhanced with the creativity and improvisation that was required of any soldier- any soldier who wished to survive.

The placid wash of the Calm came over Galahad just moments before he skewered a Woad on his spear.

Almost instantly the man was dead, but he fell in such a way that Galahad was not able to extract his weapon. He let it go – efficient. He then whipped out his bow and cocked an arrow, shooting and killing another Woad through the neck, though his horse was still racing along. Elek galloped through the impromptu battlefield as his rider let fly his arrows, and heard the smack of impact and cry of anguish that followed immediately after. If they didn't, he wasn't doing his duty.

When he reached the edge of the melee, he began circling it in order to better pick off his adversaries. Anytime he got a clear shot of a Woad – perhaps he was waiting in the path of a horse to maim it, or maybe he was gloating in the blood of a Roman soldier, or even hiding behind the trees shooting his own arrows – he took it, and they fell. Galahad used his eyes for favorable targets, his instincts for any attack on himself, and his ears for any sound that could warn him of something before either of those could…There! With his keen hearing, a cry came that wasn't British, or Roman.

_Gawain!_

Galahad quickly turned his steed in the opposite direction and sought his brother. He was over by the bishop's wagon, but a Woad had jumped onto the back of his horse and was trying to unseat him. Galahad had an arrow cocked and ready, but as the knight and the native struggled, he couldn't be sure of his shot. Since he had caught Gawain by surprise, the Woad won and threw him off of his horse. Gawain drew his ax and gripped his mace, ready for the Woad to attack, but he needn't have worried – the Woad hit the ground with a thud, an arrow protruding from his blue body.

Sure that Gawain could now take care of himself on the field, Galahad continued to survey the scene and loose arrows at his chosen marks. As he prowled the perimeter, he heard splashing coming from a nearby stream, and turned to look: Dagonet was coming up out of the water, but a Woad was running at him to block his ascent.

Thud. Another man's lungs filled with blood, drowning him.

Galahad had no sense of time, so he didn't know how long it was until things seemed to be moving more slowly, and the myriad sounds became less distinct. He knew then that the battle was nearly over. Seeing this also, Bors gave a triumphant bellow with only one discernable word in it – Rus. Letting his guard down slightly, he glanced around the field and saw only pockets of resistance left; most Woads were slashed and bleeding on the ground, as were many of the Roman soldiers. Futility of battle set aside, the young knight didn't care much for them, since his own fellows were still standing and healthy. Since his own skills were no longer needed, Galahad did the next practical thing and cantered off with Elek to collect the strayed horses. A few were dead, muscled legs and powerful chests slashed by Woadish warriors, but once riderless, most had been able to escape the battle unscathed.

First he found Sandor, Elek's brother, and Gawain's horse. This stallion was also a dappled grey with a streaked mane. Since Sandor obediently allowed Galahad to take control of his reins, he was easily able lead back to the caravan Bors and Dagonet's horses, as well as a couple of the Romans' steeds. He would have fetched more, but as he made his way to the wagon he noticed that another knight had gone to do the same. It was Tristan.

Galahad didn't know why, but that irked him.

Rationally he knew that Tristan simply had the same idea; he was always practical and logical about everything, and had a way with animals besides. It was natural that he would've gone for the horses. Yet seeing the knight still and calm on his own stallion, shoulder-length dark hair askew but for the couple braids he had scattered in his hair, but otherwise prim and correct made the remnants of his Rage stir a little faster. His comrade's tattooed cheekbones (two small, dark strokes on either side of his face) were splattered with blood, but he carried himself as if it weren't there at all, or as if it were perfectly natural. But mostly it was the way he seemed so _unchanged_…battle left Galahad with a surplus of nervous energy that made him feel jittery and a bit lightheaded, aftereffects of his Rage and Calm. Not so with Tristan; the way Galahad interpreted it, was that he was always in this constant state of Calm, a sort of grace and tirelessness as if life were a battle, and he needed to observe every detail with the same importance. Maybe a scout had to be that way, Galahad didn't know, but even Bors was breathing heavily after the day's excitement (if one could call it that), yet Tristan looked as if he had been on a morning stroll…with his horse and weapons.

Galahad's reverie was cut short when he noticed Gawain and Bors standing next to the coach, its curtain thrown open. The man inside it, with his ecclesiastical robes inlaid intricately with golden thread, had an arrow wedged into his skull.

A little blood still dribbled sluggishly out of the wound.

Arthur had finished his fighting – all the Woads were either dead or had retreated – so his next priority was the bishop. "Bors," he commanded, as he had not yet reached a point where he could see if the Roman was all right.

Bors pointed and answered wryly, "What a bloody mess."

Concerned, Arthur looked inside, but instead of looking shocked or sad, he looked thoughtful. "That's not the bishop."

"God help us!" came a trembling voice. For the first time, Galahad noticed another Roman, who was neither the 'bishop' nor a soldier. He had short black hair and an absolutely terrified expression on his face. "What are they?" he seemed to ask of no one in particular.

Bors didn't have pity for Romans or Christians – especially cowardly ones. And plus, since it was not the bishop who was dead in the carriage, he was in a considerably lighter mood. "Blue demons who eat Christians alive," he growled, then whirled around and pointed directly into the smaller man's face. "You're not a Christian, are you?" The Roman gasped and as a reflex clasped his hands together and began mumbling incoherently; he seemed to be more frightened by Bors than by the prospect of more Woads. The knight was not finished yet, however. He, too, folded his hands together. "Does this really work?" he queried mockingly, and began mumbling as if he were also praying. Then he stopped and looked up at the sky. "Hm. Nothing. Maybe I'm not doing it right."

Galahad grinned, highly amused by the display, but Arthur had gone back toward the scene of battle, toward the remaining Roman soldiers. Noticing this, the knights followed behind him and unsheathed their weapons out of respect for who seemed to be their leader (and also for possible trouble), but the Romans seemed on their guard against them, though they had helped them in battle. "Stand down," came a voice. Most of the Romans backed away, but one came forward on his horse. He was older, and contrary to common military fashion had facial hair that was streaked with silver, though his large, thick eyebrows remained black. He walked his horse right up to Arthur. "Arthur!" he smiled. It was he who had told the men to stand down. "Arthur Castus, your father's image!" He spoke Latin, but it had a different lilt to it than what the knights were used to hearing. Maybe the Romans in the military had been gone from Rome too long – or had never come from there in the first place. "I haven't seen you since childhood."

"Bishop Germanius, welcome to Britain," greeted their commander with a hint of humor. "I see your military skills are still of use to you. Your device worked." He glanced back at the wagon, where a couple Romans were removing the body of the decoy bishop.

"Ancient tricks," grinned the Bishop, clearly pleased with himself, "of an ancient dog." Then he surveyed the area around the wagon, and caught sight of Arthur's men. "Ah," he said thoughtfully. "And these are the Sarmatian knights we have heard so much of in Rome."

Galahad and the others simply stared back at him from the backs of their own horses, not sure of what to make of a bishop in military uniform. Galahad, for one, didn't like him. There was just something sort of…greasy about him. Slippery.

Seeing that he would get no response, Bishop Germanius dismounted to better converse with Arthur. "I thought the Woads control the north of Hadrian's Wall."

"They do, but they occasionally venture south," he responded as they began walking toward the now empty carriage. "Rome's anticipated withdrawal from Britain has only increased their daring."

"Woads?" came the tremulous voice of the civilian Roman.

"British rebels who hate Rome," Gawain answered with a hint of reproach in his voice.

Galahad did not bother to hide his own disapproval when he added, "Men who want their country back!" _Fought against by men who want to go back to their country._

The bishop looked a bit sour at the fact the knights had spoken without being asked to do so, but decided that getting information was more important. "Who leads them?"

"He's called Merlin," Lancelot said. "A dark magician, some say."

The tone of his voice held impatience and a hint of something else, but before the bishop could respond, Arthur averted the trouble and instead got back to immediate business. "Tristan, ride ahead and make sure the road is clear."

Without a word, the scout peeled away from the group and cantered away. Tireless.

Arthur turned back to Bishop Germanius. "Please do not worry, bishop; we will protect you."

"I've no doubt, commander," the clergyman smiled sleekly with one foot already inside the carriage. "No doubt."

The other Roman, whom Galahad figured to be some sort of assistant to the bishop, began to follow him inside. "Dozens don't worry me nearly so much as thousands," he commented to his master before the curtain was drawn in his face.

"Thousands?" Lancelot repeated menacingly. The aide's eyes grew a little wide, and darted from knight to knight, frightened.

Galahad didn't like the look of that.

---

The Sarmatians had escorted the caravan along the road toward the wall, and now that they were quite near the fort (and Tristan had come back to report nothing out of the ordinary), the knights let down their guard and relaxed, trotting side by side. Galahad was still a little edgy, however. He just couldn't get his mind off of the bishop, and the way he had regarded them all, appraising them as if they were a commodity to be sold, or tools to be used. He looked to his right, at Bors, and then further on to Gawain, with whom he was riding abreast. Deciding to share his apprehension, he announced, "I don't like him, this Roman. He's here to discharge us, so why doesn't he just give us our papers?"

Gawain raised his eyebrows and asked wryly, "Is this your happy face?" Bors chuckled and Galahad couldn't help but smile; he knew that he should be joyful that it was almost over, not worrying about whether or not the man about to give them their freedom was a likable fellow. His brother continued, "Galahad, do you still not know the Romans? They don't scratch their asses without holding a ceremony."

"Why don't you just kill him, and discharge yourself after?" Bors suggested playfully.

Though Gawain had cheered him a little, the knight was still seeing the Woads running bloodily across the back of his eyes. He could not yet joke about killing this soon after battle. "I don't kill for pleasure," he told him huffily. Then he felt a presence next to him on his left, and saw that it was Tristan. "Unlike _some_."

Tristan deigned to look mildly interested in the conversation. "Well, you should try it someday; you might get a taste for it."

Galahad glared (Tristan was _really_ bothering him today), but Gawain laughed. Bors seemed to agree with Tristan. "It's a part of you. It's in your blood."

"No," disagreed the young knight, trying to hold his temper. "No, no, no. As of tomorrow," he said wistfully, "this was all just a bad memory."

Bors made a sarcastic cooing noise in response, but Galahad had already blocked them out and began trotting ahead of all of them. He refused to believe that killing was just something he was born to do. No, no, that wasn't him. That was his job, and had been for years, but that was not who he was. Here, next to the wall, the land was flat and mostly treeless for awhile, allowing room for the vicus, or neighboring village, and grazing for herds. Galahad stared at the view, and thought maybe if he blocked out the trees at the horizon, and imagined that the little houses were of sod and not wood, that maybe, just maybe, he could feel at home again. But even with that, something was wrong…he looked up to the sky and watched the clouds roll fast across it. That was it: the clouds moved too quickly, as if they were rushing away from the small bit of land, as if it were not worth their time. Hastily they came and went whereas in Sarmatia, one could lie on his back all day to watch the clouds slowly roll by, giants pacing the bright blue.

A sharp whistle pierced the air. Galahad jumped and glanced up to see Tristan looking up to the sky and crookedly holding up his left arm. Galahad gazed as well, and saw Isolde, Tristan's hawk, swooping down to meet her tamer, or perhaps comrade might be a better word. His fellow knight's countenance didn't change (it rarely did) but Galahad just felt something sort of…soften. "Where've you been, now?" he asked the bird. "Where've you been?"

"And what will you do, Arthur," came another voice to intrude upon his thoughts, "when you return to your beloved Rome?" Lancelot said it with a teasing lilt to his voice.

Arthur smiled. "Give thanks to God that I survived to see it."

"You and your god," said Lancelot amiably. "You disturb me." Galahad smiled at this.

Arthur ignored the jab at his religion, as he always did when it was done in a playful manner. "I want peace, Lancelot. I've had enough." He paused to regard his friend. "You should visit me." The knight scoffed and looked away, but Arthur didn't let it go. "It's a magnificent place, Rome," he told him, emanating the glow he always did when dreaming about it. "Ordered, civilized, advanced-"

"-a breeding ground of arrogant fools-"

"-the greatest minds of all the land have come together in one sacred place to help make mankind free." Arthur was absolutely beaming.

Lancelot leaned in toward his friend with a raised eyebrow. "And the women?"

Their commander grinned knowingly and the two laughed, feeling carefree now that their tour was nearly over…

Galahad wondered perhaps if he was worrying needlessly.

At length the caravan reached the entrance to the fort, and they all cantered into the compound. The gate closed behind them with a clang and they all dismounted as Bishop Germanius stepped out of the carriage. Jols was there to greet them, and since they had been in battle, the knights were content to trust their steeds to the capable groom and get some rest, unless-

"Bishop, please, my quarters have been made available to you," said Arthur dutifully.

"Ah, yes," responded the clergyman, still wearing the shorts, breastplate, and red cloak of the Roman soldier. "I must rest."

So they wouldn't be getting their papers right away. Rest it was then, and perhaps some time in the bathhouses?

Suddenly Galahad heard a smack. "Where've you been? I've been waiting for you!" Vanora, long auburn hair half-pulled back and flanked by eleven children, was scolding Bors.

"Oh, my little flower, such…passion!" He pulled his lover into a fiery embrace and kissed her deeply.

Dagonet, who was ahead of Gawain, walked by without so much as a glance at the couple, but Gawain grinned and gave his brother behind him a look. _Typical Bors and Vanora, these public displays! _Galahad smirked back, and then caught up with his older sibling, who motioned for him to do so. "Arthur says that tonight at sundown, we are all to come to the Round Table. The bishop has requested that we meet at that time."

"So then!" said Galahad, relieved that a time for their freedom had actually been set. "What shall we do, our last afternoon as 'servants' of Rome?"

"Utilize the one thing that the Romans have ever done well," answered Lancelot, who also had caught up with them. "Go to the baths."

"Here, here!" agreed Gawain.

Galahad followed the knights to one of the largest buildings in the compound, and, as he entered the tepidarium and began washing away the grime of battle, he was finally able to relax and close his eyes without seeing red blood staining blue skin, or the wide-eyed look of the bishop's aide.


	3. Chapter Two: Of Golden Apples and Spilt ...

**Chapter Two:**

_Of Golden Apples and Spilt Wine_

"Galahad, wake _up_!" ordered Gawain, but not unkindly. The younger knight opened his eyes and blinked in the dimness of the room as his brother knelt next to his bed. "Always the last to wake and the first to bed, and now you insist on napping as well?"

"Didn't mean you had to wake me…" Galahad moaned.

"Didn't have to wake you?" Gawain repeated unbelievingly. "It is sundown. Don't you want your freedom, little brother?"

The knight, who had accidentally (whatever his brother may think) fallen asleep on his bed, sat upright with a start.

Seeing his brother now awake (and aware), Gawain began to leave and called over his shoulder, "The other knights are already there, I'm sure."

Galahad cursed himself and scrambled after him.

When he reached the large conference room, it was just as Gawain had said; the other knights, as well as Arthur, were already present. The centerpiece of the area was the Round Table, a large, dark wooden structure, hollowed in the middle and polished to perfection. It took up the majority of the space, and could seat thirty people, though now it usually held only seven. The drafty hall was made somewhat cozy by the large stand-alone fireplace that stood within the wooden circle, as well as the sconces spaced throughout the room, which was otherwise lighted during the day by clerestory windows. The walls, which included white engaged columns, were decorated with mosaics and gold leaf.

"Ah," said Bors when Galahad made his entrance. "We didn't wait for your arrival to start pouring the wine. Hope you don't mind."

"As long as I get some," he responded, taking his seat at the table, which was one down from Gawain. A few places to his brother's left sat Tristan, and a few down from him Bors, next to whom sat Dagonet. On the other half of the table sat Arthur, and a few seats away from him was Lancelot, a ways to Galahad's right. Seven, all told- seven out of the original thirty.

Because of the spacing, Bors, Dagonet, and Tristan had a wine carafe, and Arthur and Lancelot another. Gawain shared a carafe with his brother, and passed it to him as Arthur bid Jols, "You may fetch the bishop, now." Jols, who'd been standing near one of the doors, nodded and left.

"Where were you, anyway?" Bors continued the conversation.

Galahad grunted and drank some of the wine.

"Sleeping," Gawain answered.

He decided then to gulp down the rest of his wine and refilled his cup.

Noticing this, Lancelot couldn't resist. "Washing a bad taste out of your mouth?"

Galahad stewed a little in his chair as the others laughed, but, being the youngest, he was used to being the object of the others' teasing.

Gawain decided to come to his brother's rescue. "He wasn't with one of your women, Lancelot, I assure you."

Lancelot grinned and raised his cup to Gawain, acknowledging an even score.

Amidst the others' chuckling, Arthur stood up and raised his wine goblet. "Let us not forget that we are the fortunate ones." The laughter died down and the other knights followed their commander's lead. He continued, "Let us raise our wine to the gallant and extraordinary men we have lost, but who will be remembered for eternity."

All brought their cups to waiting lips and drank down some wine. Then Bors: "To freedom!"

"To freedom!" Galahad shouted with the rest, and emptied his goblet.

As they all sat back down, Gawain asked Arthur, "So what are your plans for after our release? Will you stay here for any length of time?"

"Stay here?" scoffed Lancelot before Arthur could reply. "Come now, Gawain, and use the gifts the gods gave you."

"Gifts the gods gave me?" echoed the other knight. "The gifts the gods gave me I use in battle- or in bed." The men again burst into laughter; Lancelot getting bested twice in one night was rare indeed.

Just then, however, one of the doors swung open, and the bishop's aide swept into the room, nose held so high in the air he could barely see over it. "His Eminence, Bishop Naius…" Slowly it seemed he took in the nature of the room, and especially the table. Obviously, it chafed against his haughty sense of propriety. "…Germanius," he finished weakly.

The knights stood to welcome his entrance (except for Tristan who decided to pour himself more wine before rising in a conspicuously nonchalant manner). Not noticing his aide's floundering (nor the grin Jols was trying to hide), the bishop glided into the room, wearing the same facial expression as the man before him, but decidedly more…sinister. His countenance morphed into disgust and concealed anger when he, too, finally noticed the Round Table. To cover this nasty shock, he forced out in his Roman Latin, "I was given to understand that there would be more of you."

Galahad raised his eyebrows and a couple of the others scoffed as Arthur answered smoothly, "There were. We have been fighting here for fifteen years, bishop."

"Of course…" replied the clergyman.

As they'd been speaking, several servants poured into the room with platters which held ornate golden goblets, in a number more than were needed. As a pretty girl came up to Gawain and Galahad, the latter picked up one of them, and saw they all contained wine. Tentatively he sipped some, and was, despite himself, impressed by its quality.

The bishop had been speaking: "Arthur and his knights have served with courage to maintain the honor of Rome's empire on this last outpost of our glory." As he spoke, he moved around the table, holding aloft another of the goblets, and as Galahad looked he saw large jewels flickering on his fingers. This drew his attention to the rest of his attire; his robes were black with royal blue, red, and of course gold, and something about them rang familiar in Galahad's memory. Then he had it: were those not the same robes that the decoy had worn? Surely the Romans would not have duplicated such an expensive garment for a man who was undoubtedly serving a punishment. _How long did they wait to strip the body? _Galahad thought with disgust. _What did they even do with it? A wonder he was shot in the head, lest the robes have gotten soaked in blood. _Germanius continued, "Rome is most indebted to you." He stopped walking between Arthur and Lancelot; apparently, he felt that was the spot where he could muster the most honor. Raising his goblet, he toasted, "To you, noble knights, in your final days as servants to the empire."

"Day," interjected Lancelot. "Not days."

The bishop simply smiled and motioned for them all to be seated. When they had done so, he set aside his chalice and began with the appropriate pleasantries. "The Pope has taken a personal interest in you, and is curious to know if your knights have converted to the word of Our Savior, or-?"

"They retain the religion of their forefathers," Arthur informed him. "I've never questioned that."

"Oh, of course, of course," the bishop muttered under his breath thoughtfully. "They are pagans."

Galahad had been willing to tolerate the clergyman's elaborate dead man's clothing, his opulent jewels, his golden chalices, his silky way of smiling, the way his words slithered and wrapped around the air in his unfamiliar accent, his attempt to mollify them with good wine and hollow words about service to the empire…but why always with the missionary work, the implied insults of inferiority? The knight bristled in his seat.

"For our part," Germanius declared, "the Church has deemed such beliefs innocence, but-" _Innocence! _"-you, Arthur? Your path to God is through Pelagius? I saw his image in your room."

The young knight found something odd in the way the bishop spoke of Arthur's monk, but his commander again ignored the tone of the clergyman, or was oblivious to it. "He took my father's place for me," he responded, a small smile alighting his face. "His teachings on free will and equality have been of great influence. I look forward to our reunion in Rome."

Bishop Germanius raised his eyebrows and stared a moment, but, clearing his throat, he returned the smile and moved on. "Ah, Rome awaits your arrival with great anticipation. You are a hero; in Rome, you will live out your days in honor- and wealth." He beamed at the knights, expecting them to find this as wonderful as he.

None of them were enchanted with the idea; _they_ would not be living out their days in honor and wealth.

"Alas," continued the Roman, feigning regret in his segue to true business, "Alas, we are all but players in an ever-changing world." As he spoke, his aide produced a long wooden box and set it in front of his master. "Barbarians," the clergyman emphasized, "from every corner are almost at Rome's door. Because of this, Rome and the Holy Father have decided to remove ourselves from indefensible outposts, such as Britain."

Gawain, Bors, and Dagonet all stood up, eyeing the bishop's box as he made to open it.

The bishop responded to this by adding more authority to his voice, "What will become of Britain is not our concern anymore." He paused, and in a deceivingly indifferent tone added, "I suppose the Saxons will claim it now." Running his fingers across its smooth surface, he unlatched the box.

"Saxons?" Arthur inquired sharply.

"Yes," answered the bishop calmly, standing up. "In the north, a massive Saxon incursion has begun."

Suddenly the pieces began falling into place for Galahad. The Romans had known about the Saxons' advancement for a long while, they must have, for the bishop to know of their position. For weeks or even months, then, the knights had been fighting here, when in the end…

Lancelot was trying to remain civil, but could not mask the anger in his voice. "Saxons only claim what they kill!"

"And only kill everything," added Gawain, in a deceptive monotone.

Galahad struggled from raising his own voice and fidgeted in his chair. "So you'll just leave the land to the Woads…and I have risked my life for nothing?"

"Gentleman." The bishop tried to make his smile appear genuine. Slowly he turned the wooden box so it faced the rest of the knights. "Your discharge papers with safe conduct throughout the Roman Empire."

Galahad stared at the box, which contained six beautifully white scrolls. Rising from his seat, he leaned his hands forward on the table, shaking slightly; it was his freedom, and for a moment he was deaf and dumb to everything else in the room. _I have dreamed of this for so long! _He had only to reach out his hand…

"But first," the clergyman interrupted his trance, "I must have a word with your commander."

The knights didn't budge.

"In _private_," he enunciated menacingly, sitting back down in his chair.

Arthur glanced quickly around the room, and immediately tried to pacify the situation. "We have no secrets," he told him, as an explanation.

The bishop slammed the box shut, no longer pretending to be civil. The sound reverberated about the room, as if a door that led to escape and beauty had been opened, and was just locked to their entry – perhaps, irrevocably.

After a thick silence, Lancelot sighed and lifted his golden goblet. "Come," he addressed the others. "Let us leave Roman business to Romans." He said 'Romans' like a swear word. The knight smiled in an insubordinate manner and mockingly toasted them before starting to leave.

Galahad frowned and looked down at the table, gazing straight into his own chalice. The wine still swirled within it. _No use letting such good vintage go to waste. _He picked it up and, following his brother, took it with him out of the room. He didn't want to think at that point…

Lancelot, leading, stalked through the building until he came to the exit. Ripping open the door, he turned to the outside wall and slammed his palms against it with a cry of anger. Gawain crossed his arms and steadily walked a few more paces before halting to contemplate the sky. Galahad leaned back and resolutely downed the rest of his wine. Dagonet stood still in the quiet street, expression unreadable as he regarded the other knights. Tristan held one of the large gold chalices in his hands, and was turning it over in the moonlight for a better look. Bors, who had also taken his goblet, chucked it at the building across the street. Wine splattered on the stones and dripped down sluggishly.

Sluggishly, like the decoy's cold blood.

"Why won't he just give us our papers?" Galahad moaned, trying to ignore how the wine suddenly didn't sit well in his stomach.

"Well, I don't care!" yelled Bors at no one in particular. "I'm not going to let the bastard ruin this night!" He calmed down some and pointed his finger at them all. "This night, _this _night marks the beginning of our freedom. I might not get those fifteen years back, but _right now_, I'm going to take what's mine, and I'm going to do what I want." He paused to look at the other knights one by one. "In celebration, I'm going to the tavern. Who's with me?"

- - -

Galahad closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, trying to block out the sounds of drunken revelry around him. In his left hand an empty cup hung loosely, and he had half a mind to let it fall, just out of apathy.

"Hands off, now!" came a woman's voice near him, too loud for him to ignore.

_No peace! _thought Galahad. At this point he did let the cup fall, but it was so noisy outside the tavern, as it was a nice night and most patrons were outside, that he didn't hear it clatter. Crossing his arms, he resigned himself to the noise and looked for his fellow knights. Bors was off near the bar itself, as Vanora worked as a maid there, and was watching their (newest) child. At a table full of Roman soldiers was where he found Lancelot; he was playing with tali, and gambling, of course. Tristan was standing a ways away, drinking silently, and Gawain was chatting with Romans, along with a few local women. Dagonet was nowhere to be seen.

"I said _no_, sir, Titus had these ordered for himself, to be brought directly to his quarters this evening." It was the same woman speaking.

By the light of the moon and the torches flickering in their sconces, Galahad searched for the source. He found her quickly, as she was quite near him, and recognized her as another of the young women who worked at the tavern. Nearly at once, however, a bright flash caught his eye near her, and his gaze was drawn to what, exactly, Titus had wanted.

It was a basket of fruit, and glimmering juicily on the top was a perfect golden apple.

A wave of memory and emotion surged up and threw itself against him, a sweltering blow to his chest. _A golden apple! _At first he was embittered, but then…then the tide came and the sea ebbed, and it was replaced by a wind – a wind that filled his sails with hope, carrying him toward his freedom, which had moments ago seemed so intangible…

He decided that he must have that apple.

"Having trouble, Catriona?" he asked the girl without moving from his spot. He spoke in British; the majority of the villagers never bothered to learn Latin, nor did they speak the tribal language of the Woads.

The couple men who had been pestering to have some of her fruit backed off when they saw they had caught the attention of one of the Sarmatians (no matter he was several years their junior), and Catriona smiled at him in thanks, then ducked her head and fiddled with her long, blonde braid. "No, Galahad," she answered, regaining her confidence. "I was just about to deliver this basket to one of the officers."

"Surely, though, I deserve a little something, as well? You realize, we are free tonight." Grinning winningly, he sauntered up to her and placed a finger under her chin, forcing her to return his gaze.

Her breath caught. "But Galahad…" She was blushing furiously.

"Very well, Catriona," he said. "You deliver your basket. But you could, perhaps, spare…an apple?" he picked up the yellow fruit in his hand, and propped it up on his fingers in display.

"All right," the girl giggled. "But tell no one!"

"Naturally," he responded, bowing and stepping out of her way. Galahad watched her leave the area, then held up the fruit for inspection. The contents of the basket must have been washed, for there was hardly a speck of dirt on it, and it seemed even to the knight that it was of exemplary shape and balance. He imagined also its taste, that it must be the correct equilibrium between sweet and bitter: the glory of promise. _Now, I think I know what compelled Ivan…_He brought the apple to his lips, intending to bite into it, until he heard Vanora's voice.

"Would you like some more, Tristan?"

Galahad glanced up to see Tristan extending his cup out to be filled by Vanora, who held a pitcher of wine. _No, no, _thought Galahad. _This apple should not be for me. _After Bors's lover moved on, the younger knight approached the older. "Tristan," he said simply, offering the apple to him. "Here."

The other Sarmatian first drained his cup before turning to regard him. He raised his eyebrows and with a hint of condescension replied, "An apple?"

This was not lost on Galahad, but he would not rise to his bait, not tonight, not for this. "Not just an apple, Tristan," he clarified. "A _golden_ apple. We have won this battle, beaten the Romans! And this…" He paused, wondering if the knight, with so many responsibilities, and who was so..._adult _even had any recollection at all.

At first it was indiscernible, but slowly it seemed Tristan's countenance changed, as if it were made of wax and was too near a fire, yet not close enough to soften completely. He gazed steadily at the younger knight, and through his eyes Galahad knew that he remembered, and he understood.

Tristan took the apple and melted back into the crowd.

"Galahad!" Gawain, shouted, smacking him on the back. "There you are, little brother!" Clearly, he was beginning to get tipsy from the wine. "How about some knife-throwing, for old times' sake?"

"A friendly competition?" grinned Galahad. "Of course. However," he added, deciding to take advantage of the fact that Gawain was slightly inebriated (and ignoring that he himself was as well), "let us heighten the stakes. After every throw we must drink, and whoever can keep hitting the chosen target wins."

"I will set it up then!" cried Gawain. "Come, Rhona!" he invited one of the village girls to join him.

"Some wine for us, Vanora!" ordered Galahad at the outside bar. "In a pitcher, if you please. A large one."

"I don't think you could handle it by yourself, lad," teased Bors, who was leaning against the counter.

"Gawain and I are to have a contest." Bors grinned in response as Galahad turned back to Vanora. "Three parts wine, not two."

"Three parts?" asked Vanora.

"Ah, let the boys have some fun," said Bors, and that was that.

Galahad carried the pitcher and two cups over to a nearby table, next to which Gawain was standing. His brother had taken a chair and put it on another table. "We must hit the back of this chair – the side of it, really," he announced.

"Excellent," replied the younger knight. "And, as this is a celebration, I have opted for two parts water, three parts wine."

"Then let it begin! After you, Galahad." With that Gawain sat down and pulled Rhona onto his lap to watch his brother, her dark hair mixing with his own lighter locks.

Galahad extracted a small knife from a leg sheath and made sure it was still in good condition (though there was no reason it shouldn't be). It was a fine, thin blade with an ivory hilt; a gift Arthur had given all of his knights after his first battle as their commander. Satisfied, he focused on the slender piece of wood, raised his arm, and threw. A split second later, it stuck out perfectly horizontal from the side of the chair back.

"Not bad, little brother." Gawain stood up and gave him a cup full of wine, then, drawing his own ivory-hilted blade, got ready to repeat his brother's feat. Galahad sat and put his arm around Rhona, gulping down his drink. Thud! Gawain's knife landed a few inches above Galahad's own.

"Good aim," complimented Jols, who had come up behind them to watch with a few others.

"Ha!" scoffed Galahad. "He won't be aiming so nicely after this." He held a cup out to Gawain, who handed him his blade in return.

And so it went for several rounds, until the brothers were somewhere between pleasantly and roaring drunk. It was Gawain's turn; he took his knife and set it on top of his boot, then shouted, "This is how you do it- balance is the key." He whirled his arm like a windmill.

"Enough fooling, Gawain!" laughed his brother. Undaunted, Gawain flicked the knife up with his boot, caught it, and swiftly let go of the blade, which still landed neatly in the chair, now notched and battered. He guffawed loudly and stumbled up to retrieve it. Galahad swigged out of the refilled pitcher (as he had lost his cup some time ago) and laughed with him, but didn't bother now to get up, as it would mean removing Rhona from his lap. "No, no, you're supposed to leave it there until I go!"

"Oh yes!" exclaimed Gawain. "No matter! I shall do it again! Give me a drink!" Jols handed him one, and he downed it before taking up his stance again. This time, he did not wait as long to throw it. He still managed to have it lodged into the wood, but it was a bit further down than usual. "Your turn, Galahad, and I'd like to see you do better!"

"As you shall!" he promised. Galahad turned to the woman in his arms. "Wish me luck." She laughed and kissed him thoroughly before he stood up to take his turn. Taking a deep breath, he unsheathed his blade and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and hurled the knife, which landed at a desirable longitude, where a man's heart might be. Galahad grinned amid the applause as Gawain made a noise indicating what he thought of it.

Suddenly, however, another ivory-hilted blade sprouted out of Galahad's.

The knight whirled around to locate the culprit, and found a man with a partially carved yellow apple in his hand. "Tristan!" He really, _really_ might have known. So much for the moment they had shared earlier; the older knight was back to his old vexing self.

"How do you do that?" Gawain asked him.

Tristan swallowed what apple was in his mouth and pointed at his knife wedged in the other's ivory hilt. "I aim for the middle."

Trying to stem his anger, Galahad stomped up to the chair and ripped the blades out of it. He tossed Gawain's to him (who caught it), sheathed his own, and then marched up to Tristan, who calmly plucked the remaining blade from his hand and continued carving the fruit before he could threaten him with it. Galahad frowned, but before he could say anything, Bors yelled above the clamor, "SHUT UP!" Everyone did. "Vanora will sing."

Vanora's protests were lost in the resounding cheers of approval from all members of the crowd. "Sing about home," suggested Galahad. He knew Bors had taught her some songs from their native land, and her voice wrapped very sweetly around them.

"Don't drop the baby!" laughed Gawain, as she was holding hers and Bors's youngest.

"Sing!" Galahad shouted again with the others.

Finally, with a shy smile, she stepped forward. Then, imagining her baby was her only audience, she began. "_Land of bear and land of eagle, Land that gave us birth and blessing..._"

As quickly as it had come, Galahad's irritation vanished to be replaced with a lessening of weight he hadn't known he'd been carrying, along with a hint of melancholy. Not when he saw the bishop's carriage, not when he saw the scrolls neatly set within the polished box, but now, now was when he felt it was real, it was truly happening: he was going home.

"_We will go home, singing our song. We will go home…_"

Her voice flitted through the air, surrounding him and arousing memories of the long forgotten past. Suddenly it was not Vanora singing, but Busana; she smiled as she sang, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulder and tickling Galahad in the face. The small Galahad sang with his mother this lullaby, while the grown-up one in Britain closed his eyes and mouthed along to the words.

"_Hear our singing, hear our longing. We will go home across the mountains. We will go home, we will go home…_"

_"We will go home," Busana sang softly._

_"I'm sorry mother," wept Galahad. "Will you forgive me, now that I'm home?"_

_His mother smiled and tucked the small boy in with the threadbare blanket. "Of course I forgive you, Galahad. But do not ever disobey me again."_

_"Never, mother. I have caused too much blood and death to ever do so again…"_

"Arthur!" shouted Jols in greeting.

Galahad snapped out of the fantasy, forgetting it as soon as he saw Arthur standing near the edge of the street apart from the crowd. It was he their leader that had kept them alive, with minimal bloodshed, as well as minimal bitterness, and now his own dream of returning to Rome would be fulfilled. He, too, had something to celebrate. "Arthur!" Galahad grinned and grabbed the pitcher of wine from the table. "You're not completely Roman yet, right?" he asked, poking fun at Roman stoicism.

"Rus!" shouted Bors, as all of the knights (including the hitherto missing Dagonet) went to meet their commander, and everyone else went back to their prior occupations.

"Knights," addressed Arthur. "Brothers in arms." Galahad was too drunk to really take notice of his serious tone, and took another swig from the pitcher. The Roman continued, "Your courage has been tested beyond all limits-"

Bors nodded. "Yes."

"-but I must ask you now for one further trial."

"Drink?" asked Bors. Galahad nearly choked on his wine as he chuckled.

Arthur ignored this. "We must leave on a final mission for Rome before our freedom can be granted." Galahad and a couple of the others laughed, and seeing this reaction, their leader plunged forward quickly to avoid prolonging it. "Above the wall, there lies a Roman family in need of rescue. They are trapped by Saxons. Our orders are to secure their safety."

The smile slowly faded from the young knight's face as the reality sank into him. _A final mission? A final mission! I should be going home, not jumping amidst a bunch of Woads and Saxons!_

"Let the Romans take care of their own," retorted Bors huskily. _Our freedom…the night of our freedom!_

"Above the wall," said Gawain, reverting back to the monotone he had earlier used with the bishop, "is Woad territory." _Fifteen years! Fifteen years of service and this is what I get?_

"Our duty to Rome," spat Galahad, no longer able to hold in his anger, anger that was quickly becoming something like his Rage with the fiery aid of the wine, "if it ever was a duty, is _done_. Our pact with Rome is _done_."

"Every knight here has laid his life on the line for you." Bors pointed at Arthur, voice lowering dangerously. "For you. And instead of freedom, you want more blood? Our blood?" His voice began to rise. "You think more of Roman blood than you do of ours?"

"Bors, these are our orders," Arthur replied firmly. "We leave at first light and when we return, your freedom will be waiting for you; a freedom we can embrace with honor."

"I'm a free man!" Bors yelled back, silencing and drawing the attention of all others outside. "I will choose my own fate!" His baby started crying, sensing his displeasure.

"Yeah, yeah," dismissed Tristan coolly, still working on his apple. "We're all going to die someday. If it's death by a Saxon hand that frightens you – stay home." This last he said whilst staring at Galahad, not Bors.

The Rage, aided by his pain and betrayal, broke down Galahad's defenses, already weakened by the wine. "Well, if you're so eager to die, you can die right now!" He lunged at Tristan, though his fist still held tightly to the wine pitcher.

"Enough, enough!" shouted Lancelot, coming between them. Arthur didn't move, either deciding not to interfere, or incapable of doing so.

"I have something to live for!" Galahad shouted at Arthur, since his way to Tristan was blocked.

"The Romans have broken their word," Dagonet said suddenly. Everyone paused to listen at the sound of his deep and even voice. "We have the word of Arthur. That is good enough." _The word of Arthur! Arthur, who preaches equality and honesty, leading us on this mission! Leading us to suicide! _Galahad seethed inwardly. It wasn't helped by the fact that Tristan was still staring at him. "I'll prepare." Dagonet turned to leave. "Bors, you coming?"

"Of course I'm coming!" he roared. Hearing this Dagonet began walking away, with Tristan behind him. At their backs Bors bellowed, "Can't let you go on your own; you'd all get killed!" Before he stomped after them, he turned back to yell at the others, "I'm just saying what you're all thinking!"

"And you, Gawain?" Arthur asked the man calmly, who had just stepped back to the group from ordering another cup of wine.

He sighed. "I'm with you." He looked over at his brother, stewing where he stood, ire focused completely on their commander now that Tristan had left. "Galahad as well."

Galahad whipped around to look at his brother. _How dare he answer for me! _But of course he had known all along, as Gawain had known, that he would go on the mission even if he went kicking and screaming and complaining the whole way. _Arthur, who preaches equality, and honesty…and honor. _Of course, he never would have admitted the victory, nor would he ever be happy about it. Galahad laughed at the futility of resisting; nor would he ever stay behind when his brother knights needed him. But this night…_this_ night! He clenched his fists and noticed that in his right hand, he still held the pitcher of wine. Just moments ago he had felt so elated, exalted, _free_. Holding the jug in front of Arthur, he tipped it over until every last drop of wine had splashed to the ground. Then he drew back and threw it at his feet with all his might.

It shattered.

_That is what I think of your Rome._

And he stalked away.


End file.
